Lessons in Entomology
by tehroundrobin
Summary: Bugs, bodies, botany and everything in between. CasefileGSR
1. Chapter 1

_Many kinds of insects, including flies, beetles, wasps, bees, and butterflies are known to congregate at locations termed leks, where there is no food, water or beneficial resource other than individuals of the same species._

II

_Many kinds of insects, including flies, beetles, wasps, bees, and butterflies are known to congregate at locations termed leks, where there is no food, water or beneficial resource other than individuals of the same species._

II

The first time Daniel Fossum met Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom was a sunny day in San Francisco, the wind lazy and the sea not. He didn't know their names, didn't ask them, and would have forgotten them even if he knew. He didn't know what was to come, didn't know how much his name would become important to them in a still faint future, and had he known, he would have done all he could to avoid it.

As it was, he was doing all he could to avoid being late. Lisa didn't like that, and he still did care what Lisa liked or not. Lisa, he was sure, would be the love of his life and life was going to be grand.

It was easy to feel that way on the day he was experiencing, bright and fair and spring. In the distance, light gleamed off the Conservatory of Flowers, tore through the air and fell on the couple ahead of him, their footsteps an awkward dance of symmetry.

"Not many are attracted to the field of entomology," the male said, the voice of a teacher.

"Must be all the bugs," the female answered, her grin charming, but imperfect.

Daniel didn't hear the answer, but he knew it didn't really matter. Flirting wasn't about what you said, but how you said it, and how you communicated all the little things you didn't say. Bugs, music, flowers or weather, it was all the same, a way into another person. Still, he did prefer the weather. Bugs were so creepy, and the thought of some of them on his skin made him feel cold even in the spring sun.

He hurried on, forgetting. The pair vanished behind him, and he never saw them again, never bothered to look back and follow their mating dance. It didn't seem important to him. The world was full of couples that might or might not work out, full of those looking for the one, the match.

Daniel thought he'd already had his.

Life went on, and time passed.

Lisa wasn't a match, it turned out. Rebecca wasn't a match. Rita wasn't a match, Rita's sister wasn't a match, Jenny wasn't a match, and Rita wasn't a match again. In the end, life wasn't a match anymore either.

The second time Daniel Fossum met Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom, he was dead.

II

Night in Las Vegas, the faint future come to present. The sun had long since set, and without its warmth, the desert felt cold and dark.

Grissom wasn't bothered by the dark, had never been. He knew many species preferred the dark to hunt, and some lived their entire lives almost devoid of sun, coming out with the twilight.

Sometimes, that felt like his life. Dancing with the dead, ever in the dark. And sometimes, just sometimes, finding someone else just the same.

"You're late," a familiar voice called to him, and he looked past the yellow tape to see Sara looking at him, her eyes dark, but her voice amused.

"Sheriff," he said apologetically, making his way over to her. "What do we have?"

"Male, in his 30s. Hard to tell much beyond that due to decomp. No ID," Sara said, and he nodded, taking in all the various specimens she had already collected. "He's been out here a while. I've collected friends for you."

"Hello friends," he said, picking up a glass and watching the larvae within squirm. "You've scared him."

"I don't have bug hands as gentle as yours."

He shot her a look, noticing the shadows playing across her face and how easily she slipped into them. "I can teach you."

"Bug hands?"

"Bug hands," he confirmed, and stood up. "Perimeter?"

"Some old tire tracks. Some paint on the tree over there. Possibly transfer. Boot prints, probably our body spotter. A used condom, could be unrelated."

"You hardly need me at all."

She gave him a look he couldn't quite read, and the smile seemed more at some secret amusement of her own rather than directed at him. He still found it lovely, and didn't tell her that.

They worked the body in silence, bagging some trace evidence that could break the case, or simply be nothing. The thrill was always to discover which.

He had a good feeling about his bugs, however.

II

In California, the mother of Daniel Fossum was sleeping, dreaming of nothing of particular importance. She always told people later it was a nightmare, that it came with a premition of despair, but that was a lie she would believe true. She dreamt of hummingbirds and butterflies and snow, and as dreams go, it was peaceful.

It was a peaceful night, and her window was half open, a wind slinking in, ruffling curtains and flowers and papers. One sheet was lifted up and then down again, falling to the floor. A printed e-mail from weeks ago, the last sign of life from a son she was fairly sure she had loved.

_Mom,_ it read. _Have arrived in Las Vegas. Staying at the Monaco. I know you don't approve, but I have to do this. Love to Daphne. I'll call when I get back and we'll sort this out. Daniel._

As final messages went, it resolved nothing and left much unsaid, as final messages were wont to do when the sender did not know them to be last. No parting words of love, no declaration of loss for what would no longer be. As final messages went, it didn't feel final at all. And Daniel's mother would imagine him sending a whole different message if he had known, something that was final, and she would cling to it.

_Avenge me, mom. I love you._

The wind picked up with a vengeance, slamming against the window, and the mother bereft of a son turned slightly in her bed before sleeping on, still dreaming of hummingbirds.

II

The sky had turned a lighter shade of grey, heralding morning to come by the time Grissom found himself in the Las Vegas lab again. It was as ever buzzing quietly with work, an anthill that never rested, feeding justice with evidence and still coming up short far too often. He had long since learned to live from case to case, always telling himself this one, this one would be solved.

This one he would solve, and he could feel Sara's agreement in the way she held her head. He'd watched her long enough to learn a few things, and he was watching her still, her body curved as she leaned over the table, examining the victim's clothing carefully. Skin drawn, he noted, another sign that she was still working too much. But then, so was he.

"Got some blood," she observed, and he leaned in to see what she saw, feeling the warmth of her as he did.

"Could indicate violence before death," he noted. "We'll have to wait on cause of death."

"The good doctor will only be too eager to tell, knowing him."

"Doctor who?"

"Doc Robbins, are you..." She paused, and turned her head slightly to look at him. "This is Grissom humour again, isn't it?"

He didn't reply, and after a moment Sara just shook her head a little and looked down at the table again. A death in traces, laid out before them. Evidence waiting to make sense, a puzzle waiting for the first piece.

He still wasn't sure even after all these years if it was the moment before the puzzle was laid or after it was finished that felt to him the most exciting. Anticipation versus resolution, and he could never have both.

"So, what do you think - body dumped there, or was he killed there?" Sara asked, and he looked at her. "Seems a desolate spot. Good for a body dump."

"Good for other things too," he replied, lifting up one particular piece of evidence and dangling it before her. She smiled faintly.

"Used condom. 'Mating' spot?"

"Some do like it private."

"Some do like it comfortable," she replied, and he wondered at her words. "A long way to travel just for a romantic encounter."

"People have travelled further."

"Yes," she agreed. "They have. I'll get this to Hodges. Heighten his sense of self-importance by doing some actual work."

She left, and he stayed, watching John Doe's meager belongings. No ID, no distinctive clothes, no shoes that could be easily tracked. DNA and dental records should do the identifying job eventually, but for now, still a stranger, still no pieces in the puzzle put in place.

"Who were you?" he wondered, and the silence offered a million theories.

II

In the silence of a Las Vegas hotel room, a muted TV flashing the news that a body had been found in the desert, Daniel Fossum's girlfriend knew everything had gone wrong, and she couldn't cry, couldn't grieve, could only think of the last time he had kissed her and wonder if her lips now tasted of death.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be, but time didn't bend to will, and she couldn't go back.

Daniel was dead.

Her life was about to be shaped by it, and no emotion felt strong enough to capture it all, so she just sat there, feeling nothing at all until the silence was a roar inside her.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be at all.

II

Grissom's office always had a certain sense of hush in it, and Grissom wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps it was his own illusion, but the noises of the lab always felt fainter within, almost as if the office was a cocoon, sheltering.

What the others thought, he hadn't asked, but he always knew when Sara was entering his cocoon from the way she would walk just a little softer the moment she approached his door.

"Doctor Robbins wants to see you," she said now, her voice also soft.

"The good doctor comes through."

He knew she was smiling even without looking up from his paperwork, even without hearing her voice. She just would smile at that.

"So, what does an entomologist enjoy about a British science fiction show with time-travelling alien?" she asked, and he looked up. "Doctor Who. I looked it up."

"Are you sure you don't want to transfer to detective work?" he asked, knowing he would never lose her to that. A million other things perhaps, but not that. She was too like him for that.

"I'd miss the bugs," she said lightly.

"They'd miss you," he said equally lightly, and it was a sort of half-truth. "I liked that time wasn't linear. I liked that the hero was a doctor and a scientist. I liked his desire for knowledge."

"Here's some knowledge you may desire," she replied. "Brass may have a lead on our John Doe. Woman called, just gave a name she claimed was the dead guy, and then hung up. A Daniel Fossum. Brass is looking into it."

"You do know my desires."

"Yes," she agreed, seriously. "You don't deserve me."

"I don't," he agreed, but she remained still, and didn't walk away. "So why are you still here?"

"The world has never been fair."

And then she was gone, and he was looking at the empty doorway, wondering.

The mating habits of butterflies, moths, mosquitoes, even ants came explained in textbooks and colour illustrations for easy reference. Suddenly, he wished hers did too. "The Mating Habits of Sara Sidle", all the patterns of her captured within for him to read and understand.

Maybe it would be easier then.

Maybe it wasn't meant to be.

He turned off the light and left, and the dark lingered, as it always did. 


	2. Chapter 2

_In some species of praying mantis, the female begins to eat the male while they are still mating. She starts at the head and by the time she reaches his abdomen, mating is completed. Unintentionally the father becomes the supply of food for the bugs that are his offspring._

----

"Gunshot wound," Robbins said with a flourish, pulling back the starchy sheet to reveal the gray corpse of Daniel Fossum. It seemed that the man got a small thrill from the ceremonious undraping of a dead body. And though he'd seen many before, Grissom couldn't help but cringe at the sight of this particular dead man because, well, he didn't look dead.

Traces of youth still hung around his eyes and his lips weren't turned down in the perpetual frown that death was always sure to set. He was a person, not a corpse and Grissom had to take a moment to put himself back in the moment, reinforce his clinical detachment. After a blink and a short swallow, he ventured to guess, "Cause of death?"

"I would expect, lacerated the lungs, lodged in the fifth vertebrae," Robbins pulled a small pan from the table beside him, the gentle roll-hiss of the bullet sliding sound echoing in the cavernous morgue. His voice was matter-of-fact and pithy, though holding a note of optimism at his diagnosis. "Immediate paralysis and would have bled out."

Grissom's lips set themselves into a grim line and he nodded, eying the little copper fragment as it stopped in its perpetual swing and settled to catch a gleam of light. "As for time of death, nothing solid or probative," sighing, the older man settled back on his braces. "Due to the condition of the body and the absence of significant drying, I'd have to ballpark it, seven to ten days, right before that rainstorm we had. But again, not probative."

Gil arched a brow, waiting for more information. When he received none he leaned back on his heels, his tone as if though he were speaking to a petulant child, "Al, you can't-"

Robbins immediately staved his comment. "Not without having the burden rest on me, Gil," the tone of his voice was slightly agitated, and he had squared his shoulders firmly. "Maybe your bugs will tell us something different."

Sometimes Grissom hated the word probative. It nagged at him now. The word was made incredibly black or white, either/or, by adding the word 'not' before it, or by simply leaving it be.

Yes or no.

True or false.

The scientist in him should have thrived on that but the human side, the real man beneath the cool exterior wished he didn't have to be so "yes or no" all of the time. After dropping the bullet with Bobby in ballistics, he made a quick detour to the break room to grab a cup of swill to return with to his dark, dank office.

Pins sat next to tiny evidence containers, filled with an assortment of insects. Cracking his knuckles on his knees, he set out to develop an adequate timeline from which he could derive information. Often times he found such activities to be mundane and even tedious.

Placing the last specimen on the styrofoam, Gil massaged his aching fingers, wondering idly about arthritis and other things that came with aging. Brushing that aside, he pondered once more what he had come to find.

Grissom blinked hard and sat back in his seat, hands folded and resting in his lap.

Scattered before him were several boards of insects at various stages of development. Chicken scratch composed the notes placed haphazardly around the desk, on top and underneath things. It was times such as that during which

Grissom wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose and give in to the nagging headache ushering its way in.

Pink tongue slipping out to tease at the corner of his lip, he sat slowly up and curled his fingers around the edge of his desk.

Blowflies made up the majority of his collected material. Most were larger than one centimeter in length, meaning they were older than three to four days. Almost all of them were in the pupae stage; he was sure some of the existing larvae and eggs had been produced by the existing pupae but he couldn't be sure. To be safe, Grissom placed the death at least ten days previous.

That was a simple enough conclusion, but he couldn't shake the undeniable feeling that he was wading knee deep into something he shouldn't be. Reviewing his notes once more, he tidied them into one pile and slid them into a manila folder, printing a label with the case file number.

---

Jessica Holbrook had heard enough of the news and hadn't answered a single call that had been patched through to her room.

Well-wishers most likely, close friends calling to see if she was alright, if it was really true, if, if, if.

Proof of her previous night's activities throbbed in her skull and lay in a neat little pool on the worn sienna rug. Her mouth was parched and tasted of stomach acid and nothing and as she rolled over onto her stomach, her head swam harder.

Again, she lifted the photo-the only existed of the two of them together-into her line of vision. It was tattered from the oil and salt on her fingers and Jessica smoothed the edges again, not allowing her fingers to pass over his face, not yet ready to let it go.

He must have been in Las Vegas to see her, it was the only explanation she could come up with. A tug at her heart had tears pricking the back of her eyes. He'd come to Vegas... for her. After everything they had said to each other, he had driven hours to see her.

For a moment, Jessica wondered just how his mother felt about that; the woman hated her something fierce. Jessica still wasn't sure why; it might have been her body, it might have been that she wasn't of "pure" stock or maybe it was just that Jessica was the only one that Daniel had allowed to call him Danny.

Putting that thought out of her mind, she rolled over and grasped the phone, hitting the zero button, asking for the Las Vegas Police Department.

She'd help in any way she could; she couldn't just leave him like that, dead and alone in the desert.

---

Just as he was about to pluck his glasses from his face, Sara knocked lightly and entered immediately. He flexed his fingers in his lap, feeling a pull at the joint but ignored it as he focused on the soft sway of her hips as she came into view.

A brief smile was his greeting before she delved into business. "We have... well, what could be a break," she informed him, sliding easily into a visitor's chair. At his nod, she continued, "We got a call from a supposed contact."

He didn't have to ask her who because she supplied the name easily, "A Jessica Holbrook, claims she knows it's him because..."

Again, waiting for her to continue, he hung his head. When no answer was forthcoming, he raised his eyes again.

"Because?"

"Well, because she has a feeling," Sara explained with a bit of guilt.

"What do you mean, a feeling?"

Sara licked her lips and could feel a blush rise on her cheeks. "He uh, wouldn't take her calls and she said they'd had a fight," Sara swallowed. "She apparently says that he followed her here, to make up."

Grissom nodded skeptically, fingering the edge of the file as if it meant something. "Sara, I," and just when he was about to shoot down her information with something akin to science, he thought better of it. Two steps forward was much better without that one step back. Lowering his voice to a fantastically amiable and even affectionate voice, he said, "Well then, where are they from?"

Another sweetly sarcastic smile was his first answer, soon followed by, "Weed... California."

Grissom had to smile at the name while he rendered a picture in his head. A tiny town, he was sure, filled with small families with big dogs. Most likely a quiet place where people were more content to climb the trees in their backyard than cut them down. The right side of his face lifted in a soft smile as he imagined her crossing a weathered porch to pad across the grass of a green, green, impossibly green yard-

"Seriously, I think I heard of that maybe once," her eyes glassed over to the texture that one often assumed when reminiscing. "On one of those segments for World's Largest... tomato or something." Before he could even tell her that tomatoes weren't crops for the region, she interjected with, "I know they don't have tomatoes there but... you know what I mean." Grissom nodded, knowing from the way she was breathing that she wasn't yet finished speaking. "Anyway, she came to Vegas to, how do I put this, audition... for... a position."

"Showgirl?" he guessed.

Sara cleared her throat and shook her head. "Stripper."

His brow rose, though he didn't know why. Perhaps it was instinctual because at t his point, he wasn't shocked, not by her revelation. Her mouth twitched at the upturn of his eyebrow and he saw it, and smiled a little himself. "So she'll be down at P.D." Sara hopped up from the chair, clapping her hands on the front of her thighs. "You comin'?"

He sighed and got up from the chair, holding in the wince as his joints protested. "Right behind you."

---

P.D. was abuzz as it usually was, even at that early hour. Sara held the door for him as they entered, a blast of cool air their greeting. Sara half-spun around to speak to him, "Let's find-"

"Hey!" came Brass's greeting from the other end of the hall; he stood while they approached, waiting until they were in earshot to speak again. "Holbrook is in an interrogation room, which one of you is going in?" Brass folded his hands in front of him and waited for an answer.

Sara looked to Grissom and then back at the detective, "Well, we both are, I thought..."

Brass's jaw shifted and he shrugged. "Well, she might be a little… belligerent."

"Why's that?" Grissom asked.

"She's still drunk..."

Sara rolled her eyes, shrugging her jacket off before slipping it over one arm. "Well, two heads are always better than one," came her reasoning as she walked past Brass towards the room.

Brass stood forward, glancing up at his friend, "Says who?"

Grissom shrugged and made to follow after her, "Sara, I guess."

When he reached the room, she was already inside, seating herself in a chair across from the buxom brunette, whose head was in her hands. Grissom pushed slowly into the room, slipping down beside her without any sound. Sara startled as his arm grazed hers but gave no other sign that she acknowledged his presence.

"Ms. Holbrook," she began gently, to which the other woman groaned and rolled her head back and forth on her arms. "You called us, we're here to ask you some questions. I'm Sara Sidle, and this is Gil Grissom," after a beat, "We're from the crime lab."

Jessica slumped back in her chair.

Grissom's first thought was of a raccoon; the woman's eye makeup had pooled into the gentle crevices below her eyes, giving her the appearance that she hadn't slept in days.

"I haven't slept in days," she groaned whilst crossing her arms of her ample chest. "I couldn't get over the fight, you know?" her attention was on Sara as she said the last bit, hoping for female sympathy or understanding.

"So there was an argument between you and Mr. Fossum," Grissom interjected, voice as smooth as a knife cutting through butter.

A sob breaking past her lips, Jennifer nodded, her arms going limp at her sides, thwacking off the metal of the chair. "Mmm, Danny didn't want me here… didn't want me using my body for… well… but the money, you know, and I didn't want to be stuck in Weed forever."

Sara knew that feeling all too well; looking for an out wherever she could, just to get away, just to have a chance. "And that's why you two argued?"

"Mmm, yeah, he uh- he wanted us to by a house, you know, back home… he wanted to start a family." Her eyes squeezed shut as a fresh wave of tears crested over her lower lids and skated down her cheeks. "He wanted to marry me."

Sara's lips twisted into a frown as she flipped open the file at her fingertips. "You… you checked into Four Aces two weeks ago, correct?"

Jessica nodded, worrying two fingers on the edge of the table. "Yeah, I had an interview at a few places, cost a shitload in the end but, you know, it was the cheapest nightly. Whatever," she sighed, as though the information doesn't matter. "No, I don't…"

"Had you had any contact with Mr. Fossum during that period of time?" Grissom asked, gently prying the file away from Sara, noting that her fingers didn't easily give it up.

"Danny called the night I arrived, begged me to come," A sob that traveled across the table and smelled of vodka, "Come home, but I didn't and we fought some more, you know, and then he said he would come get me, make me be reasonable."

"Did he ever hit you?" Sara asked, noting the 'make me be reasonable' explanation.

"God, no. No, no. Danny never laid a hand on me… he… we were in love. Really…" Jessica's head was back in her hands then, as if that would control her sobs. "He owned the convenience store in town; we met when I dropped a carton of eggs," the woman went on and Grissom wondered why death made people divulge intimate details about their lives. "Didn't date for years but… in the end, there we were… and now…"

Licking her lips, Sara was about to speak when the woman whispered, "Best thing that ever happened to be and I just… just let it sail by… what we could have been if I'd cared more…"

"This isn't your fault Jessica," Sara said in a ragged whisper.

"I know that… but it sure as hell _feels_ like it is."

Clearing his throat, startling both the women, Grissom asked, "Did he know anyone in town, did he know of anyone who was in Las Vegas other than yourself?"

"Most of his friends were either in San Francisco or back in Cali, some of his buddies might have been in town but… he wasn't one for the glitz and glamour of the big city, you know? The only reason he could stand San Francisco was the Bay… wrote a few columns about it."

"He was a writer?" Grissom pressed, scratching a few things down in the folder.

Jessica picked at her cuticles until they were very nearly bleeding. "For Crest, one of those homey-country magazines…" She laughed, "The type his _mother_ read."

Sara glanced at Grissom and waited to see if he had anything to say. "Was he," she began after he said nothing, "Into gambling or perhaps… narcotics?"

"No!" Jessica spat immediately. "He barely drank wine with dinner."

"Do_ you_ engage in either of the two, Ms. Holbrook?" Grissom posed, his voice laden with a slight sheen of condescension. Sara swiveled her head to gaze at him, surprised.

Again, she laughed, this time bitterly. "I drink from time to time and I drank tonight… to numb myself."

"Did it work," he retorted with more malice than Sara would have expected from him; this was getting out of hand and she wasn't sure why.

Jessica set her eyes on his and held her spine straight. "Nothing can numb love, Mr. Grissom… and I'll love him until _I_ die."

Both Sara and Grissom got up to leave as the suspect whispered, "I think I killed him in the end, I think I was killing him the moment we met."


	3. Chapter 3

_There are two types of cricket songs: a calling song and a courting song. The calling song attracts females and repels other males, and is fairly loud. The courting song is used when a female cricket is near, and is a very quiet song. _

Diane Fossum thought it was strange that the last moments before seeing the dead body of her only son, her heart was having a little competition with the clock on the wall opposite her. There was no question as to which was the faster; her heart was definitely making itself present. It was the tick of the clock, so loud. At first she welcomed it as a distraction. For the first ten minutes she sat contemplating the workings of that clock. Battery. Cogs. She knew Daniel would know the mechanics behind it, well read as he is...was. But she, she didn't understand how something could keep a steady beat like that.

Steady and sure. Dependable.

Unlike life.

The last twenty minutes, however, she cursed the clock. It was then she noticed that it was drowning the violent beating within her, and she hated that. Her heart was surely stronger than the perfect time of the second hand. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the staccato rhythm within and almost cried when it lost yet again to the sound of another tapping. It was consistent and purposeful. It was someone's stride, and it was definitely louder than both her heart and the clock. She was no longer the sole occupant in the waiting area.

She opened her eyes and stood slowly. "I want to see my son," she requested, cutting off any kind of greeting the man in the white lab coat intended.

"Ma'am, I -"

"But I've been waiting here for a half hour."

"I know that, and I'm sorry. We were told your flight wouldn't arrive until later today."

"I drove," she responded absently.

"They're preparing your son as we speak."

"Preparing?" she asked without thinking. "Never... nevermind. Okay."

"Ma'am, we discussed this over the phone – we have positive identification, there really is no reason for you to do this."

"I want to see him."

"I understand. I should warn you, however, that your son was left in the desert for several days and the condition in which..."

She let him drone on about Daniel's altered physical appearance, and while she appreciated the concern of the Las Vegas Coroner's Office, it didn't dissuade her need to see him. She was the first person to welcome him into this world, and since God chose her to outlive him, she would be the first person to bid him goodbye. She didn't fear death – it was as beautiful as life in her opinion, but this wasn't a beautiful act.

This wasn't how it really should have been.

It was surreal the way the next few moments would play out. One foot in front of the other. Some would describe the experience as being in some sort of time warp – life in slow motion – but to her it seemed as though it went by all too fast. The assistant's words rushed passed her and even though she was sure that what he was saying held some sort of importance, she didn't have the will to keep up. She did wish, however, that she would have taken one last breath before the shroud that covered her son was removed by the practiced hands of her escort. The pain she felt when she gasped for the air that her lungs rejected was sharp and real, and somewhere deep inside her, she knew that pain was there to stay.

She knew why he was in Vegas. No matter what she had to say on the matter, Daniel still pined for that girl. That girl that lured him to the city of sin. That girl that killed her son, however indirectly. No, she didn't fear death, but death should fear her – or rather, the hand that wielded it.

Shift ended two hours ago, but when you're already trailing ten days behind a murderer, any thoughts of going home vanish quickly. To Sara, going home was just something to do until the next shift – something to fill her time. That, and when faced with a mystery, she couldn't rest until she had at least part of her mind wrapped around it. It wasn't just her; the others were like that as well. Which is why when she passed the layout room and saw Grissom perched on a stool, she wasn't surprised.

What did surprise her was what he was reading. The table before him displayed several photos of the victim and the crime scene from various angles, but that wasn't what held his attention. She was tired, and she could see in the set of his face and posture that he was as well - but her exhaustion wasn't to the point of hallucinations.

Grissom was reading a country living magazine.

She entered the room quietly, and even though his eyes were on the publication in front of him, she knew that he was very aware of her presence. He was always aware - it was no secret to her - and even though it was endearing in some way, it also pissed her off a little.

"Whatcha reading?" she asked. Feeling a little daring, she plucked the magazine from his grasp and read an excerpt from the cover, "_What's Modern Now? Rethinking the Way We Live. _Making some changes, Griss?"

"Confucius says 'Only the wisest and stupidest of men never change'," he responded flippantly. Realizing she wasn't amused by his remark, he continued, "I'm just checking out this magazine our vic wrote for. There's actually a write-up he did in here for some socialite in the Bay area."

"That's a good four hours from Weed."

"It's apparently a pretty big publication. I just got off the phone with his editor. Mr. Fossum traveled a lot for his articles, and it wasn't out of the ordinary to spend a week or two at a location." Grissom removed his glasses and gestured toward the photographs in front of him. "I've been looking over these. We didn't find anything when we found the body and I'm not finding anything now. Robbins said that the guy should have bled out."

"There was minimal blood at the scene," she added, picking up one of the photos purely out of habit. She'd poured over them herself not two hours ago. Ten days in the elements and any probative evidence was little to none.

"So we definitely need to be looking for a primary crime scene."

"I think I can help. Well," she amended with a smile, "begin the search at least." Sara opened the file she brought in with her and removed a sheet of paper, handing it to Grissom. "Your bugs say he's been dead ten days, but American Express says Daniel Fossum checked into the Monaco the day after Jessica got into town."

"That was two weeks ago." Replacing his glasses, he looked over the sheet containing their victim's credit card activity. Unfortunately, nothing much past him checking in was present.

"I'm meeting Brass in fifteen minutes to go process the room." She leaned her hip against the table and let the silence – the silence of two minds working in tandem - linger a few moments before continuing. "You know, if he was traveling a lot to San Francisco, and according to Jessica, had a lot of his friends there, then why did he need to stay in Weed? When his girlfriend spoke of Vegas and stripping, why not just move them to the city?"

It was a fine line – the personal lives of the victims. Grissom felt that certain things weren't their business, even as investigators. Did it really matter why Fossum wanted to stay in Weed? Grissom knew that it might, but he really didn't feel comfortable delving into other people's relationship woes – at least not with Sara. "He didn't want to leave home," he offered simply.

"It didn't sound like he was ever at home. Listen, she said he wanted to marry her. Wouldn't you think that he would do more to keep her around? Not even that, but wouldn't he do more to keep her from baring her body for money?" When all Sara got as a response was a shake of his head and a shrug, she collected the credit report and replaced it in her file. "Well, the DNA from the blood we found on the shirt should be in soon. We'll see if it's a match to the vic or not."

"Jessica Holbrook's samples were logged in, we'll compare it to hers as well."

"She didn't have any defensive wounds. If there was violence involved, even given the time line, she would at least have bruising or healing cuts."

"We can't rule her out." Grissom gathered his photographs into a neat pile and spared a sideways glance before offering, "Besides, if he loved her as much as she claimed, he would have called when he got into town."

"You think she's lying?" she asked, intrigued.

"I'm thinking that if the victim cared for her as much as she said, he wouldn't leave her alone in a strange city."

"Hmm." Sara refrained from further comment, though her mind couldn't help but to take her back a few years. She remembered being alone, and even though her reasons for moving to Vegas were in obvious contrast to Grissom's, she had still considered him a friend. It occurred to her that his version of caring must not be the same as hers either.

Feeling the quick down shift in mood, Grissom averted his eyes and adjusted his position on the stool, hoping to hide his discomfort. It was inevitable, really, when two people were stuck in this kind of limbo he'd created. Smiles. Easy banter. Looks. Not so easy banter. Unease. Their relationship was complicated, but they still managed to make it a formula. Even the scientist in him wasn't amused. He needed to break the cycle.

"The bugs...I should have waited for you." At her questioning gaze he continued, "You know, 'bug hands'."

Her slow smile was sweet, but it held something he couldn't put his finger on. If he was honest with himself, he would say that it was acceptance.

"Well, that's your thing anyway. I gotta meet Brass." She left as quietly as she had entered.

The chance to contemplate the odd moment was snatched away by the vibrating sensation just above his hip. Grissom swiftly plucked the device from his belt and couldn't contain a tired sigh. The victim's mother was waiting for him, wanting to be informed of their progress. It was always the cases they had so little on, that parents wanted step by step information on.

He maybe didn't have much to tell her, but hopefully she had a few things she could tell him.


	4. Chapter 4

**--A cockroach can live for up to nine days without its head--**

Diane Fossum's brilliant green eyes moved over every inch of her dead son's body. Her eyes that normally sparkled with mirth and joy were now hidden beneath heavy lids, the joy that they once contained having been sucked out of her the moment she walked into the cold, unfriendly morgue.

She took everything in: the decayed, insect eaten skin, the wide 'y' shaped gash that had been stitched across his chest and down through his abdomen. Not an inch of him was spared her painstaking examination.

He would have hated this, hated that he had ended up lying in the heat of the desert covered in insects. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. She hated bugs almost as fiercely as her son had and the thought of him being powerless to stop the hateful creatures from making a meal of his body, completely and utterly repulsed her.

The pungent odor of rotting flesh tickled the inside of her nose and wound its way down into her stomach where it caused a vile lurching so potent that she was sure she would be sick. The only way to stop herself from vomiting was to move, so she paced around the gurney. She walked from head to foot, trying very hard to control her breathing and keep herself together. 

Her grief was like a bubble sitting right on the surface of her emotions, waiting for a moment to pop. She was holding on by a string; tears prickled at her eyes and a sob stirred in the back of her throat and she had to fight to control herself as she continued her scrupulous inspection of what was left of her son.

Though she was standing closer to death than she had ever stood before, Diane Fossum still did not fear it. She felt pain and grief, anger and sorrow, but this empty shell was not her Daniel, not anymore. 

_He had a mole on the back of his neck._ The thought entered her mind from nowhere, bringing with it a vivid memory of a mother making an examination of her newborn babies body, in a manner that scarily mirrored her actions today. She could remember her hands running over every inch of his skin as she counted fingers and toes and memorized every spot.

She felt an almost irresistible urge to reach her hand out and touch him the way she had that day; to have the loving hands that had welcomed him to this world send him out of it again. But she couldn't help but wonder if the sensation his decayed, dead flesh beneath her fingertips would forever taint the memory of the baby-soft skin.

Whenever she now thought of that tiny, perfect baby, would the memory forever be immediately followed by an image of this grotesque shell of a man?

She turned to the Coroner's assistant and gestured to him with a nod of her head that she was finished. As he led her from the morgue, she could have sworn she heard the voice of her son, low and melodic as it had always been. The sound was sweet in her ears, though the message was anything but.

_"Avenge me mom."_

She puzzled him.

It wasn't a normal occurrence, for Gil Grissom to struggle to read the reactions of a grieving family member. He had seen too many of them over his time; had seen those that kicked and screamed and wished fervently for a reversal of the fates. He'd seen people with calm expressions or tears rolling down their faces. He'd even seen them walk from an observation wearing a smile upon their face.

But he had not seen this.

She was holding onto her dignity as tightly as she possibly could. Tears welled in her eyes when she answered questions about her son, but they didn't spill over. Her fingers were laced together on the table in front of her and she did not fidget and he was sure that she wasn't consciously making an effort to sit as still as she was.

It was as though she were distraught and relaxed at the same time. He regarded her curiously; his head tilted slightly to the side and mouth slightly open as though the expression would help him to discern what was going on inside this lady's head.

He theorized with himself, thinking that perhaps a well placed question was the answer to the puzzle. If he could find the right words or hit the right nerve, he would bring her out from underneath whatever mask it was that she was hiding behind. He needed her reveal her true feelings on the situation, needed to see if she was grieved or bitter.

It was a challenging situation in which he may or may not be right in his assumptions. But despite knowing what the consequences of failing may entail, he was not at all fazed. If anything, he was excited by the challenge. It was the sort of moment that reminded him why he enjoyed his work so much.

The questioning had been going around and around in circles for half an hour with Grissom trying to gently probe details from a woman who seemed determined to hold onto them. But he continued on, knowing that there was more to Diane Fossum than what she had been presenting him.

"…And smart, so smart, Mr Grissom," Diane Fossum continued, seemingly oblivious to Gil's careful observations of her mannerisms. "He was too good for Weed, but he shouldn't have been here. He didn't deserve to die in Las Vegas."

She thought highly of her son, a fact was evident in every word she said. She thought he was the smartest, kindest, loveliest person in the entire world. He worked hard and was excellent at his job; he was well liked by everyone who knew him.

At this stage, it was purely conjecture, but from what she had said so far and the statement previously given by Jessica Holbrook, Grissom was almost certain that Diane had been one of those awful overbearing mothers. She would see no fault with her son and blame any misfortune or problem on the actions of others rather than him.

"Why _was_ he here, Mrs. Fossum?" Grissom asked, carefully taking her lead and expanding on the information she had offered.

She raised her eyebrows. "The man in the morgue, he told me there had already been a positive ID on my son. How could she do that and not tell you why he was here?"

_Now we're getting somewhere_, Grissom thought, almost sighing with relief when he heard a slight note of panic creeping into her voice.

"She…?"

"Jessica," came the snapped reply. "I assume that she was the one who identified him. That stripper. That… that--_whore_. She did this, she did this to my son," Diane spat through gritted teeth and Grissom had to fight to resist his urge to smile knowingly.

One carefully placed question was all it had taken to hit the proverbial nail directly on its head. Mrs Fossum's carefully hidden grief was lost as she made no attempt to disguise her abhorrence towards Daniel's girlfriend, Jessica Holbrook.

_And thus blaming someone other than Daniel for his untimely demise_, he thought.

His voice calm and even, Grissom did not outwardly acknowledge the shift in attitude from the woman sitting opposite him. "Tell me, Mrs. Fossum, why is it that you think that Ms Holbrook had something to do with Daniel's death?"

"He followed her here. He was trying to rescue her from her life," she answered, her hands shaking ever so slightly. "Knight in shining armor and all that—he read a lot, my Daniel did. And he had an extremely vivid imagination. He just got… _carried away_ with this one."

After a small pause in which she visibly fought to control her emotions, she gave Grissom what was quite possibly the most important piece of information that she had yet.

"She wasn't good enough for my Daniel," she said, her voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

Inside his head, Grissom had been carefully arranging every shred of information that she was giving him. It didn't matter that she wasn't directly answering his questions, because what she was doing was helping him to build a detailed profile of what Daniel had been like in life. And by knowing what he had been like alive meant that he may be able to find a motivation for someone to have wanted to end it.

Smart, imaginative and bookish and obviously the apple of his mother's eye. Quite possibly he had had a romantic streak that had caused him to leave the comfort of small town Weed for Las Vegas. A girl and the romantic notion that he could save her from the life that she had been leading. The romantic notion that he and his love would be enough to entice her away from here.

As he sorted through his thoughts and processed the information carefully, Grissom wondered if anyone would have been good enough for Daniel Fossum in his mother's opinion.

"I just got off the phone with a Renee Price," Brass said to Sara as she slid into the seat opposite him at his desk. "She was Daniel Fossum's girlfriend before Jessica Holbrook."

Brass gave her a half smile and a slight raise of his brow, a face that told her that he was daring her to question the relevance of him speaking to Fossum's previous girlfriend was. But knowing Brass as well as she did, Sara just returned his smile and waited for him to continue.

"Renee Price was a girl who lived a _similar_ kind of life to his most recent lady-friend," Brass continued. "Drugs, stripping, booze-- the whole deal. She tells me that Daniel was a bit, well, clingy. Had this great fantasy of them getting married; little house with a picket fence and two point five kids, the whole deal."

"So he likes a certain sort of woman," Sara answered. "He had the same sort of a fantasy where he rescues the damsel in distress with Renee that he had when he flew here to save Jessica Holbrook. How did you get in contact with Renee Price anyways; junkie come out of the wood-work after hearing about him in the press? Some sort of a grab for money?"

Brass shook his head. "No point, he had peanuts for savings. And she isn't a junkie anymore, she's some sort of community aid worker in LA. But she did see the reports on the news, cam forward because she thought it was important."

"And this statement is probative how?" Sara asked, knowing that there was a point coming somewhere else he wouldn't have bothered calling her down here.

"Renee swears black and blue that Fossum's mother, Diane, was trying to break the two of them up, even kill her," Brass said. "It could be something, could be nothing, but she says that Mrs Fossum was stalking her and _arranging_ things so that there was trouble for her. You know, putting in bogus calls to the manager of the club where she danced and telling him she was making money on the side. Or stealing money she had set aside to pay for her habit so her dealer had no choice but to rearrange her face, that sort of thing."

"Does Ms Price have anything to support her allegations?"

"A TRO," Brass answered, finally delivering Sara with the information she needed to find value in his story. "It's not much--"

"But it's reason enough to do a bit more digging into Mrs. Fossum's background," Sara finished, springing out of the chair with renewed enthusiasm. "I'm on it."


	5. Chapter 5

_Aggressive mimicry is a phenomenon where one organism (a mimic) tricks another organism (the dupe) into thinking it is another (the model), with the result being a negative outcome for the dupe, as well as the model._

Sara knew she was in over her head the moment she sat down across from her at a poolside table at the Sands. Diane Fossum had changed into a white tennis ensemble, an expensive bracelet draping her wrist. She reminded Sara of a toothpaste commercial; hair an impossible gold offsetting brilliant green eyes, and perfect white teeth. Sara figured that meticulous attention daily to diet, exercise, and a good plastic surgeon on speed dial had halted Diane Fossum's aging by at least 15 years. Briefly, Sara felt a pang of self consciousness that had always hit her when she was in the same room as a cheerleader in high school. Brown mousy hair, big puppy eyes, and freckles with a bra size that didn't make it out of the 'A' cup until her senior year wasn't, in Sara's estimation, a confidant way to enter adulthood.

Diane Fossum was grieving; there was no doubt about it, but she was doing it with a flawless manicure and top shelf gin on the rocks with a twist of lime. She leaned over for the third time since they had sat down and put a well tanned hand on Sara's arm. "Miss Sidle, I understand that this is your job, but you're not asking the right questions. I admit that I was heavily involved in my son's life, and I didn't like either of his girlfriends, Jessica or that little whore Renee, but neither one of them is dead. Obviously, I would have had no reason to kill my own son. He was everything to me."

Sara pulled back almost imperceptibly, but Diane Fossum noticed and raised an eyebrow. "Ma'am, I have been doing crime scene investigation for almost fifteen years. I am pretty clear on what is appropriate territory for an interview."

The woman sat back and slipped a pair of dark glasses onto her face, and then turned her face away. Sara stifled the urge to roll her eyes. It was all she could do to remember that this woman had just lost a son. She waited a moment before starting again, "Mrs. Fossum, you threatened their lives. I know that they weren't your idea of girlfriends for your son, but-"

The perfectly coifed honey curls swung her direction again. "You don't understand. My son and I…we were very close, closer than you can imagine. My husband left us when he was very young. We've shared everything. He was my life!" A sob broke through, and she clutched her mouth as if to catch more before they escaped.

Sara looked away, and squinted into the sun. Finally, a shaky voice emerged from the distraught woman. "I don't know if you ever really cared for your parents. I can't tell. I don't know you, but you seem cold, uncaring. Maybe you didn't care about family. Maybe what I am feeling right now is too foreign for you; something you can't comprehend-"

Sara didn't wait for her to finish. She was on her feet looking down at the weeping woman. "I'm sorry. We'll talk later, Mrs. Fossum." She turned abruptly without waiting for a response and walked away.

It wasn't until she was in the lobby that she slowed. Her stomach lurched, and she leaned against a marble pillar to steady herself. She hadn't answered half the questions she needed to, but it was going to take a lot more than a scolding from Grissom to get her back in a room with Diane Fossum.

………………………………………………………………………………

Jim Brass had a situation on his hands, and was trying to remember exactly why it was he accepted that spot in the New Jersey State Police Academy all those years ago instead of taking the position in his uncle's grocery. Almost thirty years had passed and he still wondered about it especially after Brass grocery announced its 35th new store last week. He could be sitting outside a four bedroom condo right now in Miami Beach, his feet in a pool, answering one of the two 5 minute phone calls that constituted a work day like his cousin Billy. Instead, he was propping up a drunk Jessica Holbrook while she puked into a trash can outside his office door. His mouth set in a grim line, he averted his eyes to the vomit that had spattered onto his suit jacket. "Fuck you, Billy Brass," he muttered under his breath.

"It's not fair!" she cried into his shoulder. Then he looked down and she was wiping her face on his lapel.

"All right, Jessica, that's enough," he said as he pushed her off him. She sagged against the wall, tears running mascara black down her face. He pulled off his jacket and balled it up, looking around for a plastic bag. Everyone was studiously avoiding the situation, so he and his suspect were in a suddenly empty hallway. Cursing low in his throat, he threw the jacket in the trash can, and growled at Jessica. "You think you could come back into my office without destroying anything else?"

She nodded at him and pushed away from the wall. She swayed, her feet still in heels planted awkwardly as she steadied herself against the wall. Brass shook his head and yelled, "All right, friends and colleagues, I'm going to need somebody to call EMS. Ms. Holbrook is going to be needing a detox bed tonight. I know you're close by, People. Hiding behind office doors, are we?"

A couple of heads peeked around doors and he glared at them, raising his voice again. "Ms. Holbrook is going to be in my office with me. When I next open this door in twenty minutes, there better be EMS standing there with a stretcher, this trash can gone, and a plan as to the rehabilitation of the worsted wool jacket residing within. By God, I will be taking names if any of those things are not in place when this door opens. Twenty minutes!"

He turned to his door, gesturing for her to follow. Jessica Holbrook walked as if she was a colt born in the last hour. Jim winced at her, walked back, put his arm around her waist and her arm over his shoulder, and dragged the exotic dancer inside his office. He poured her into a chair, but she immediately slid onto the floor, sitting against the chair legs. "It's better done here," she reasoned.

Jim Brass shook his head and abandoned his own chair; bending his old knees until he was on the ground beside her. "Are you like this a lot, Jessica?"

She shook her head dramatically. "Nobody understands what I felt for him. He was a beautiful man."

"What happened in the three hours since we released you?"

She grimaced. "His bitch mother is what happened. I went to the morgue to say good-bye, and she told me I was banned. Told me I couldn't be at the funeral. Said you were getting ready to arrest me for his death. Insisted security escort me away. She just stood with the coldest look on her face. She wants him all to herself. Always been like that. He was hiding from her."

Brass snorted. He wondered if either woman truly understood that there wasn't much to fight over at this point. "What did you drink, Jessica? Did you shoot up? What'd you take?"

"Just a bottle of vodka; Phillips, I think."

"Right. Terrific, Jessica. What did you drink before we picked you up the first time?"

"Rum. Can't remember how much. It doesn't matter. I want the poison. I want to be dead. There's no point. I'm just a body to people. Tits and ass. A whore. Nobody ever saw me as anything else; no one but Danny."

He lifted her chin. "Life ain't cheap, Jessica. Thirty years as a cop tells me that. Sometimes the barriers in our lives are ones we build."

She squinted at him with blurry eyes. "Huh?!"

"Never mind, Sister. You just hold on." He patted her shoulder as she wrapped her arms around the leg of the chair.

She raised her ruined face to his. "Do you know what it feels like when you finally have somebody that wants to be with you more than anyone else in the world? I mean, you really feel that special. Do you know?"

Brass sighed and stroked her hair. "It's been awhile, Cupcake, but I think I can remember what that feels like."

"I feel like there's a big hole inside me, and I don't think it can ever be fixed."

"Shhh! That's the booze talking. You just close your eyes. We're going to get you a nice bed; keep you safe. It's going to be all right." Jim Brass wondered if Ellie was ever this bad. Did she ever feel like nobody saw her as real or important? He gently supported the girl as she slid all the way to the floor, and then he thought back to a time when a little six year old girl would come running out of the house at the sight of his car, arms wide, yelling, "Daddy, I missed you!" at the top of her lungs.

………………………………………………………………………………

Grissom stood at the door, and watched her for awhile. She was feverishly arranging and rearranging photos from the crime scene on the lit table top. She was the most complicated person he had ever known…and the most intoxicating. Feeling at a loss around her had become normal to him. Her dark head darted up and turned in his direction. She cocked her head in a way that always gripped him in his gut and frowned, "How long have you been standing there?"

He pushed away from the door frame and walked in. "The interview on Diane Fossum is pretty sketchy. You were not your usual thorough self today."

Sara licked her lips and looked away. "It didn't start right. We both got off on the wrong foot. I thought it was wise to back off for the time being rather than alienating her."

"Gonna take another stab at it tomorrow?"

"Yeah, well, maybe she would respond better to someone else. I'm thinking Nick would be right up her alley. I think she definitely responds to men more than…women."

Grissom nodded and sat down across from her. "Well, that's gotta be a first."

"What?"

He pulled his glasses off his face. "I've never seen you give up before."

She scowled. "I'm not giving up. It was not…it just didn't work. I'm stepping back and looking at the smartest possible way to get the job done well."

"Okay." He shrugged but made no move to leave.

She tried to return her attention to the photos before her, but she could see those big Grissom hands folded on the table in front of her. She looked up, glaring at him.

He raised his eyebrows. "Want some help?"

"It's not a two person job."

"Okay."

She turned back to the photos, but the hands, his hands, stayed folded like a living statue on the table. She knew the man, and she knew he wasn't going anywhere until she started making sense. Exasperated, she pushed away from the table and stood up. She walked over closed the door to the room and turned back to him. "Okay, Grissom. You want to know everything, huh?"

He knew better than to move a single muscle.

She paced back and forth before him. "Ever heard of borderline personality disorder?"

He nodded. "It's a mental health disorder characterized by unstable, extreme, and unpredictable mood swings. The person who has this disorder often makes dramatic gestures to get attention, is an impulsive decision maker, and has an inexhaustible fear of abandonment. As a personality disorder, it has a very poor treatment outcome."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks Encyclopedia Brown."

He waited patiently.

Sara eyed him for a moment before continuing, "My mother was diagnosed with this disorder. Do you know what it is like to live with someone who is borderline?"

He shook his head.

She sighed. "It's exhausting. It's never ending. She would take all of my emotional resources, and then come back for more. I was a little kid. I couldn't convince her that I loved her, and I worked at it almost all the time. She was sure my father would leave her." Sara stopped and chuckled. "So, of course, she made sure he never did." She paced. "I'm sensitive. I can smell a person who is a bottomless pit a mile away. I get shaky, nervous. I'm afraid that I'll be sucked dry and left for dead."

He didn't say anything. Sara was like a deer in the clearing sometimes. You had to wait for her, give her the time she needed or she'd bolt. He was starting to understand why.

She smirked. "You probably think I'm borderline. I certainly am dramatic enough."

He looked at the table for a moment and then looked up at her. "Diane Fossum?"

Sara rubbed at her forehead. "It was oozing out of her pores." She smirked. "I was waiting for her to tell me I didn't love her enough."

"Thanks for telling me."

"It spooks me, Grissom; takes me to a place I don't want to be. I'm sorry."

He stood slowly. "You were right to walk away. You can't be objective." He saw her start to bristle and put up a hand. "We all have something in our past that haunts us, makes it hard to focus. I'm just glad you're smart enough to recognize yours."

"It feels like I have more demons than most." It was almost a whisper.

He hesitated. It would be easy to walk out. He had said everything that needed saying.

He didn't go. She looked lonelier than he'd ever seen her; a young girl forever fighting to escape her past. It moved him in a way he couldn't describe. He walked over, took her hand before she could react, and squeezed. She gave an involuntary gasp at his touch. Standing beside her, he whispered, "You survived things that were terribly wrong, and you didn't end up repeating any of those wrongs. To me, that means you're a pretty amazing woman."

The hand in his grasp relaxed and then squeezed back. These were the moments he wished he knew how to capture and preserve. It made sense to him. He was a collector and good at preservation. Ask almost any species from the beetle family.


End file.
